


Born to Be Mild

by alivingfire



Series: tumblr stuff/short fics [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Drinking, M/M, Motorcycles, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: “So do you ride?” the boy asks. He grins, nods at something behind Harry. “Is one of those yours?”


  Harry turns, remembers that he had been ogling a shiny white motorcycle. It still gleams temptingly, and there’s a sudden thought flashing in Harry’s head like a warning light: tattoos-soft fringe-blue eyes-do you ride? and Harry says, “Yeah.”


  The boy’s eyebrows raise, slowly but steadily. Like he can’t believe it. Like it’s unbelievable that Harry would ride a giant white motorcycle. That, Harry decides, cannot be allowed to happen. So, he also decides, turning back to the motorcycle, he must prove his validity. His manhood. Even if he’s lying.


  Suddenly, Harry’s straddling a motorcycle, and this isn’t even the weirdest place he’s ended up after a night out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> From [this post](http://knightchanges.tumblr.com/post/140949587658/an-au-where-harry-is-chillin-outside-a-bar-waiting) on tumblr:
> 
> **an au where harry is chillin outside a bar waiting for a friend and spots a really cute boy in a white sweater so he immediately climbs onto the closest motorcycle to impress him but cute boy (louis) just stares at him and says :/ ? that’s my bike**

It’s not that Harry’s _drunk_ , see. It’s just that, in the past few hours, a lot of people bought him a lot of incredibly colorful drinks and he finished them. All of them. They all came with little paper umbrellas. Those are all currently stuck in his hair.

Except one, which is up Liam’s nose at the moment.

Liam. Liam’s  _amazing_.

“Thanks, Haz,” Liam laughs, pulling the umbrella from his nose and tucking it behind his ear.

"You're welcome," Harry hums, smiling. Liam's arm is suddenly warm around Harry’s waist, and Harry knocks their hips together as they walk. Not really on purpose, but it happens anyway.

The air around them changes. Muggy to cool, stale to fresh; a breeze blows and lifts Harry’s curls off his face. They’re outside, now, because Liam’s _amazing_. Or something. 

“Fuck’s sake, you lightweight,” Liam chuckles again, pushing something cold into Harry’s hand. “Drink this.”

Harry does, expecting another wonderful drink. Frowns, because it doesn’t taste like anything.

“Water,” he pouts. “Water is _boring_ , Liam.”

“Boring, but necessary. Drink up, Haz,” Liam says, pushing the glass of water back up to Harry’s mouth. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Harry doubts that, because water is boring and doesn’t make his head spinny or make everything funny like all the pretty drinks from before, but Liam is also amazing and so Harry takes a sip, and another. Liam nods approvingly.

“Good,” he says, then steers Harry toward a jumble of empty outdoor tables and chairs. He pushes Harry’s shoulders until he sits, still sipping his water like a fucking champ, if he might say so himself. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Harry makes an affronted noise, takes another drink. “Liam, why are you leaving me here all defenseless and cold?”

“It’s summer, you loser,” Liam says, ruffling Harry’s hair. “And you are not defenseless, you have a working cell phone and a glass of water. I believe in you.”

“That,” Harry hiccups, “that doesn’t make _sense_. Liam!”

“Harry,” Liam says, squishing Harry’s cheeks. “Haz. Listen. There’s a very pretty girl back in that bar that I think I have a very good chance with. Or, at least, I did until _someone_ ,” he says pointedly, raising his eyebrows and looking so stern that Harry turns to see if anyone is standing behind them, because he does _not_ deserve that look, “walked over and shoved an umbrella up my nose.”

Oh. “Is someone me?” Harry whispers.

“Yeah, it is, bud,” Liam answers, also in a whisper.

“‘m sorry,” Harry says. He straightens the umbrella tucked behind Liam’s ear. “Go get her. What’s her name? Do you love her? Is she my new mum? I should meet her.”

“No, no,” Liam says, pushing Harry back down when he tries to stand. “You just… stay here. I’m gonna go back in there, get her number, and I’ll be right back out. Five minutes, tops, then I’ll get you home.”

Harry takes another sip of water. “You’re a good friend, Li,” he says, patting Liam’s face.  

“I’m the best,” Liam agrees. “Stay here. Five minutes.”

And then Harry is alone.

It’s a lovely night. Stars twinkle, as they sometimes do, and this little section of London is quiet, sleepy under the inky black sky. Another breeze blows by and cools the sweat on the back of Harry’s neck, and Harry tilts his glass, draining the last of the water.

It’s been five minutes, right? Surely. Harry checks his phone.

It’s been one minute.

Right.

Harry stands; Liam said to stay here and he will, he _will_ , but surely Liam couldn’t have meant stay at that table. Five minutes is a _lifetime_ , and Harry was bound to get bored. The water took away some of his fun dizziness, and the pressure of a looming hangover is already starting to make itself known. If he sits here, that’s all he’ll think about; so he stands.

There’s not much to look at where he’s standing, just empty tables and chairs. Abandoned beer bottles, mostly empty. Some cigarette butts, embers long extinguished. He wanders a little - there’s a lamp post nearby with some fun graffiti scratched into the paint that he reads for a while before something glints in the corner of his eye.

A car is driving somewhere nearby, but that’s not it. Instead, its headlights illuminate a new sight: a row of shiny motorcycles, parked in a neat line just to the right of the bar.

Harry stumbles over.

The first one is white, probably very impressive if Harry knew any sort of anything about motorcycles. However, he _can_ confidently say that it’s big, and shiny, and very clean. The chrome gleams in the low light, and Harry knows he shouldn’t but he still reaches out a finger, just to touch-

“Are you Liam’s friend?” says a voice behind Harry, and he jumps so high his heart lodges in his throat for a second.

There’s someone standing there, a small someone whose voice is light and raspy and sounds very amused. The light from the streetlamp is behind this new person, giving them an otherworldly glow. Like an angel.

“I’m no angel, love,” the stranger says. Harry wonders if he’s a mind reader. “Not a mind reader, either.”

Harry takes a moment to assess. “I’m talking out loud, aren’t I?”

“That is how most people choose to talk, and you do seem to be doing it,” says the stranger, and the amusement in their voice is more pronounced. “Anyway, a guy named Liam just sent me out here with this and to make sure you hadn’t got yourself stolen.” Something cool is pressed into Harry’s hand, another glass of water. “Is that something that happens often?”

It’s only happened, like, four times. And Harry easily could have left during all of those situations, he just felt bad leaving people on their own. Especially since they typically thought they were going to get laid, and Harry hadn’t meant to flirt with them all night but that’s what happens when he drinks rum. Harry takes a sip of water, and otherwise clamps his mouth shut so none of that comes pouring out.

The stranger moves, steps closer to Harry so that they aren’t silhouetted by dingy light from a streetlamp anymore; after a few seconds, Harry blinks and he can suddenly see.

“Are you sure you aren’t an angel?” he asks dazedly when the stranger comes into view.

It’s a boy, a very, very pretty boy with eyelashes that could kill a man and a smile like starlight. He’s wearing a white jumper, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and baring soft wrists decorated with ink, little doodles and a game of naughts and crosses and a rope twined like a bracelet. Harry loses his breath at eyes so blue it’s like the heavens fell and found a new home.

The boy throws his head back, laughs. It’s the most wonderful sound in the world. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Huh,” Harry says. He drinks more water because his mouth has suddenly gone incredibly dry. Wonders, for the slightest moment, if it would be inappropriate to ask this boy to bend him over the nearest flat surface.

“So do you ride?” the boy asks. There’s a terrible moment when Harry considers locking himself in the highest tower in the land because he just said his last thought out loud. The boy grins, nods at something behind Harry. “Is one of those yours?”

Harry turns, remembers that he had been ogling a shiny white motorcycle. It still gleams temptingly, and there’s a sudden thought flashing in Harry’s head like a warning light: _tattoos-soft fringe-blue eyes-do you ride?_  and Harry says, “Yeah.”

The boy looks impressed. “Yeah? Which one?”

In for a penny, then. Harry’s alcohol-soaked brain told him this was a good idea, and he’s gonna follow this thing through. “Erm,” he says, turns back to the white monstrosity. “This one.”

The boy’s eyebrows raise, slowly but steadily. Like he can’t believe it. Like it’s unbelievable that Harry would ride a giant white motorcycle. That, Harry decides, cannot be allowed to happen. So, he also decides, turning back to the motorcycle, he must prove his validity. His _manhood_. Even if he’s lying.

Suddenly, Harry’s straddling a motorcycle, and this isn’t even the weirdest place he’s ended up after a night out.

“Well,” the boy says, and Harry tries to shift incrementally to get more comfortable. His jeans are far too tight for this; luckily he doesn’t _actually_ ride a motorcycle, he might lose the function of his most valuable asset if he did. “That’s impressive, mate. Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

“You can’t judge a book by his cover,” Harry says, leveling the boy a lofty look.

“You’re so right,” the boy agrees solemnly. Tilts his head. “Can you take me for a ride?”

Harry’s heart misses approximately seven beats. “What?”

“Can I ride with you?” the boy asks. “Just around the block?”

“Oh, um.” Harry says. “I don’t. Um.”

“What’s wrong?” the boy asks, approaching slowly. His hips sway, Harry loses his train of thought. Cause and effect is a funny thing. “This is yours, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry blusters. “I just. I- I don’t have my keys.”

“Where are they?” The boy is right next to Harry now, his delicate fingers tracing along the nearest handlebar. He smells, impossibly, like sunshine.

“Liam,” Harry’s mouth says. His brain works to catch up. “You know him, you met him. He has my keys.”

The boy’s lip pouts, just a little. “Shame.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his eyes watching the boy’s mouth. “Shame.”

“Do they look like this?”

It takes Harry a moment to pull his gaze away from pink petal lips, and when he does he’s confused. The boy is holding a set of keys, and one of them, the largest, is white.

Almost like.

The boy reaches over, slides the large white key into the motorcycle’s key slot. Twists it. The engine roars to life between Harry’s thighs.

After a moment passes and his point has been made, the boy turns the key again and the motor goes quiet.

And he only says one word.

“Oops?” he asks, like he’s going to let Harry pretend it was a simple mistake, though the glint in his eyes tells Harry that nothing could be further from the truth. 

Harry hangs his head, laughs.

“Hi,” he says in answer.

Liam chooses that moment to exit the bar. He stops when he sees Harry astride a motorcycle, as though someone took all his worst nightmares and forced them into reality.

“Harry,” he says, slackjawed, “what the hell.”

“Oops,” Harry says this time. The boy does a quick glance back and forth, watching Liam’s astonishment turn to something not quite as fun, and reaches out to turn the key again. The engine roars once more and the boy kicks a leg expertly over the seat, sliding in front of Harry and gripping the handlebars.

“Hold on!” he cries, and whoops as he kicks the bike into gear. Harry flails for a moment before his arms find their way around the boy’s waist, and then they’re off disturbing quiet London streets.

The wind whips through Harry’s hair, and suddenly he’s drunk on something entirely different and entirely new.  

 

 

The boy’s name is Louis, and he smokes hand-rolled cigarettes and wears soft sweaters and rolls his jeans up to show off his ankle tattoo. His name is Louis, and he looks like an angel but smirks like the devil, kisses like he’s somewhere in between. His name is Louis, and he drives a giant white motorcycle, and when Harry’s feeling lucky Louis lets him go for a ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/post/140955180241).


End file.
